On Friday nights a melting pot,
descends upon the pub,
truck drivers, cockies, factory hands,
and workers from the scrub,
to mingle in the many shouts,
that see their glasses fill,
who leave before they’re entertained,
by workers from the mill.
The timber boys with blackened hands,
and sawdust through their hair,
throw their cheques upon the bar,
then drink without a care,
not one of them...
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